


It Is The Hour

by dreamycastaway



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Pining, this isnt a lonely!martin fic but martins definitely been listening to mitski you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 10:51:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19828630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamycastaway/pseuds/dreamycastaway
Summary: “Youcanalwayscrashatmyplaceifyouneedto,” Martin said, forcing the words out of his mouth fast enough that he couldn’t think better of it and offer to call his boss a cab instead.“What?”Martin took a deep breath. “I said, ‘you can always crash at my place if you need to.’” It took all of Martin’s willpower not to close his eyes. Instead, he watched Jon’s face, waiting for the shorter man to make up his mind.





	It Is The Hour

**Author's Note:**

> In which Jon and Martin get a little too drunk and Jon has to stay at Martin's place. Rated T for alcohol/drunkenness. 
> 
> Shout out to [ lime-pigeon ](https://lime-pigeon.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for the concept!

Martin hadn’t known when the event “Boys’ Night” had appeared in the office calendar – no one in the Archive had seemed to know. Tim denied having created it, and no one had bothered to ask the Head Archivist if he’d done it, as no one believed that the phrase “Boys’ Night” had even been in his vocabulary prior to its appearance on the calendar. 

Tim had, of course, asked Sasha if she had set it up, but she said she hadn’t. Martin had gingerly approached her later to ask her if she minded not being invited. She’d said no, and actually, she thought it was rather thoughtful that whoever had planned it had remembered she would be attending a friend’s rehearsal dinner that night. Martin had been unable to delete the event, and as attempts by any of the rest of the Archive staff had proven similarly futile, they had eventually stopped trying. 

None of them knew for sure if they were bound to the events on the office calendar, but Tim’s attempts to ditch staff meetings had been strangely unsuccessful since they had started working in the Archive, and Martin had felt a sneaking suspicion that any of them trying to get out of this wouldn’t do them much good. Sure enough, on the fateful evening marked for “Boys’ Night”, Martin found himself sitting in a softly lit booth in a small pub, ordering chips and drinks alongside Tim and Jon. 

**

Martin had been nervous all day. He was nervous all day most days, but this had given him something to fixate on. As opposed to his typical diffuse anxiety, which floated like a prickly fog over everything, this had been a hailstorm targeted on the approaching evening out. Was it going to be awkward? Was he going to be too tall and big to fit in some tiny booth at some random pub? Was Jon going to go back to work afterwards? Martin knew he had been overworking himself, but it would be different to see it himself, to see that resigned and frightened look on Jon’s face as he mumbled something about there being ‘more to be done.’ What if someone got sick? What if it turned out Jon hated him in a social setting? The onslaught of concerns had played ceaselessly on a cruel loop since Martin had woken up that morning. 

But now that he was here, the whole thing felt surprisingly fine. Good, even. They’d asked Martin to pick the location, so he’d been able to pick a homey spot just a few blocks from his flat. Tim had hit on the hostess, who had brought them their new schmaltz fries “to try”, with a wink at Tim that indicated to Martin that the huge basket of chips would probably be free. And while Jon still looked tired and unapproachable, he wasn’t quite as hunched over as usual, wasn’t acting quite as defensive as he typically did. Martin felt strongly that this qualified as the Archivist loosening up, and had to prevent himself from smiling as he watched Jon listen to Tim tell a story about a kayaking trip without looking over his shoulder even once. 

“Another round?” Tim asked jovially as he finished his story, and Martin was surprised to see Jon tip forward his empty glass in agreement.

“Oh, sure,” Martin said, moving to stand and walk with Tim to the bar. 

“Don’t worry, I got it,” Tim said, picking up all three glasses almost effortlessly and walking towards the bar. Martin realized why Tim had been so courteous as he watched him lean easily on the old wood bar to flirt with the dark-haired bartender, who seemed to be eating him up. 

Jon let out a short, good-natured laugh from the other side of the booth. “Figures Tim would be able to find a handsome date, even at an office function,” he said.

Martin looked back at Jon, trying not to let disappointment creep into his expression as he realized that his pale complexion and squishy figure were about as different from the lanky, tan, “handsome” bartender as possible. He frowned before he could stop himself. 

Jon grimaced. “I’m sorry, probably not the type of commentary you want from your boss.” He paused, and when he continued speaking his voice was softer and sadder. “I guess I forgot about work for a moment.” The way he said it made it sound as if he thought it was a bad thing that he’d managed to forget about work, and Martin felt his heart sink. 

“No, no, it’s not that …” Martin hadn’t been sure where this sentence had been going when he started it, and he still wasn’t sure now, as Jon raised an eyebrow and waited for Martin to finish his clarification. “Well, it’s more …” He was starting to wonder how he had managed to let a three-line conversation go so cataclysmically wrong when Tim plopped back down next to Jon with their drinks.

“Sorry, guys! Here you go,” Tim said. Martin breathed an almost imperceptible sigh of relief as the conversation turned to the most important architectural landmarks in London, hoping that his awkwardness had been forgotten. They continued on like this for some time: Jon consistently surprised his coworkers by being up for another round, Tim continued regaling them with stories of his adventurous vacations while Jon occasionally interjected with a bit of trivia about a location or historical figure Tim mentioned. The more Martin drank the warmer and softer the light felt, and he was happy to mostly watch and listen. 

**

Eventually, the last of the sunlight faded and the street lights went on, and still they sat there, drinking and talking. Tim asked if they were up for one last round, deciding not to wait for their answer before heading off to the bar. When he came back, he was holding just two drinks. 

“Who’s cut off?” Martin asked. John raised an eyebrow and waited, expectantly. 

“Oh, no one, I’m just headed out,” Tim said with a grin, nodding towards where the bartender was putting his coat on. “I closed out your tabs; this last one’s on me,” Tim said, flashing Martin a wink as he handed him and Jon their cards back. “See ya Monday!” 

“See you Monday, Tim,” Jon said. Martin just nodded as he felt a flush rise in his face, and hoped desperately that Jon hadn’t noticed Tim’s wink. He brought his glass up to his lips to try and hide his blush, not even bothering to look at what Tim had brought him. He didn’t put his glass down until he’d finished what he thought based on the taste must be some kind of whiskey cocktail. 

“Martin, you wouldn’t happen to have a book with you?” Jon asked as Martin put his glass down. The timing was so exact that Martin knew that Jon must have been watching him, waiting for him to finish. He could feel himself blushing again, and with no way to hide it, was forced to resort to hoping Jon would assume it was the liquor. He nodded and reached into his satchel, fishing out his hardcover collection of Romantic poetry. 

While this was normally the type of thing he wouldn’t own up to carrying with him at all times, the alcohol had taken hold just enough that he pushed the worn-down volume towards Jon without thinking much of it. It seems Jon didn’t think much of it either, as he opened it to a random page and plucked the lavender out of his cocktail. He dried the stems off carefully, sipping his drink as he placed the flowers between the pages of Martin’s book, seemingly without reading any of the printed text or Martin’s annotations. Martin watched, confusion weighing on his brow, as the other man finished his drink and delicately closed the book. He handed it back to Martin, who placed it gingerly in his satchel, being careful not to crush the bit of lavender stem Jon had left sticking out from the pages.

“Sorry,” Jon mumbled. “It’s just … something I do. Sometimes. I hope it’s okay.” He was by no means slurring his speech, and someone who had never heard his normal way of speaking might not have even thought him to be drunk. But to Martin, who spent his days at the office hanging on to every punctuated word and purposeful pause that came out of Jon’s mouth, the difference was obvious, and potentially concerning. “If the flowers bother you, we can throw them out. It’s just a French lavender and I thought, well, it might be nice to save it, you know, I mean, as a memento,” as the Archivist continued babbling, Martin adjusted his previous assessment: the difference was obvious, and definitely concerning. 

“Jon, Jon,” Martin said, realizing that his words were also slow and sloppy. He still didn’t fully understand what Jon had been doing with his book of poems, but decided it probably wasn’t that big a deal. “It’s fine, it’s completely fine.” 

Jon smiled at this, a real smile, not a smirk or that expression he sometimes made that was supposed to be a smile but was really just him sort of pursing his lips, and Martin felt himself grin before he could stop himself. He hadn’t seen Jon genuinely smile since they’d all changed departments. They sat like that for a moment, smiling at each other in the soft light for no real reason at all. 

“Last call! We’re closing in fifteen minutes,” the hostess’ voice rang out, breaking through their haze. 

“Oh, we should go,” Martin said, not wanting to be the table that prevented them from closing up the pub for the night. Jon nodded, and got clumsily to his feet. Martin waved goodnight to the hostess as they stepped out the door into the cool nighttime. A fine mist hung in the air; the promise of rain later that night. 

“Jon, are you going to be okay getting home?” 

Jon looked up at Martin, blinking slowly. “Oh. I’m, uh, sure I’ll be fine,” he looked around, seemingly disoriented. “I think the night bus in my neighborhood should still be running by the time I get back there.” 

“Are you sure?” 

Jon paused. Martin figured Jon must be really drunk; sober Jon would respond to any query that questioned his competence harshly and immediately. 

“Youcanalwayscrashatmyplaceifyouneedto,” Martin said, forcing the words out of his mouth fast enough that he couldn’t think better of it and offer to call his boss a cab instead.

“What?” 

Martin took a deep breath. “I said, ‘you can always crash at my place if you need to.’” It took all of Martin’s willpower not to close his eyes. Instead, he watched Jon’s face, waiting for the shorter man to make up his mind. 

“I, uh, wouldn’t want to impose on you like that,” Jon said.

“It’s really no trouble, Jon,” Martin said, recognizing the script they were following. They both knew neither of them could acknowledge outright that Jon should stay at Martin’s, even though they both knew that’s what was going to happen at the end of this conversational dance. 

“I mean, only if you’re sure. I’m sure I can get back to my place.” 

“It’s already getting late; I only live a few blocks away.”

“You can kick me out early tomorrow. I wouldn’t want to disrupt your Saturday.”

“I don’t have any plans tomorrow morning.”

“Okay, well. Only if you’re sure it’s not going to bother you.”

“I’m sure, Jon.”

A silence hung between them for a moment. “Okay,” Jon sighed. “Okay. Thank you, Martin.” 

“This way, then,” Martin said, gesturing down the street. The walk would normally only take Martin three or four minutes, but given that Jon’s legs were shorter than his and they were both a little off balance, he figured that tonight it would take too long to pass the trip in silence. 

“So, what were you doing with that flower?” 

Jon looked away. “Oh, I, uh … my grandmother taught me how to press flowers. She tended to take them as souvenirs from places we went.” He paused. Martin waited. “We didn’t do things together too often. It’s just … one of my only fond memories of childhood, and … I don’t have many occasions to do it anymore.” 

Martin wasn’t sure how to react to Jon’s statement – like much of what Jon said, it contained both something Martin found incredibly endearing and also a deep-rooted sadness, and Martin, per usual, wasn’t sure which to react to. He desperately wanted to envelop Jon in a hug, whisper something kind into his ear. But Jon seemed embarrassed talking about it at all, and Martin knew he was already pushing his luck tonight. 

“That’s lovely, Jon,” Martin said, trying and failing to use the tone of voice a colleague would use, as opposed to someone more familiar. Jon smiled, a soft, clumsy smile that made Martin almost drop the keys to his building. _Who would have thought he’d be such a cute drunk?_ Martin thought as he fumbled with the key in the lock of the front door. He led Jon down the carpeted hallway, and opened the door to his small flat. 

“Well, this is it,” Martin said as he closed the door behind Jon. “I’m sorry it’s not more impressive,” he said, letting out an embarrassed laugh. 

“Martin, it’s fine. I know how it is to live on an Institute salary,” Jon said. He paused, as if waiting for someone to say something. “Do you have roommates?” 

“What? No, I, it’s just me. Why do you … oh.” Martin grimaced at himself as he realized he’d left the bedroom television on. All day. “No, it’s just the television, I can turn it off.” 

Jon followed Martin as he walked from the combination kitchen-entryway into the bedroom. Aside from the small bathroom, the apartment was only the two rooms. 

“I, uh, don’t have a couch,” Martin said as he looked around for the TV remote. “So you can, um, have the bed, and I’ll sleep in the armchair.” 

“What?” 

“I know, I know, ‘how do you entertain without a couch, Martin,’ well, to be honest –” 

“Oh! No, sorry, no, I wasn’t going to … I just,” Jon shifted on his feet. “I don’t feel right making you sleep in the chair.” 

Martin clicked the power button on the remote, plunging the room into silence, save for the rain pattering on the window. If he was going to write a poem about this moment (which he most certainly _wasn’t_ , he told himself) he would have said that the silence was symbolic of Jon rejecting his hospitality. 

“I mean, I fall asleep in my chair all the time in the office, and this one looks much more comfortable than mine,” Jon said with an awkward laugh. “I can take the chair, it’s fine.” Martin just continued to stare at him, which seemed to make Jon think he needed to keep talking. “Besides I couldn’t possibly sleep in your bed in my work clothes … I’m being trouble enough.” 

Martin looked at his boss in disbelief. “Well, you won’t be sleeping in your work clothes,” he said as he shoved a clean set of pajamas into Jon’s arms. The smell of fabric softener hung in the air around them as Jon slowly took the bundle of fabric from Martin, looking shocked. Martin looked down. “I’m sure they’ll be big on you, but … hopefully it’s okay for one night.” 

“I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Jon murmured, holding on to Martin’s pajamas as if they might not be real. He paused. “You don’t have to do all this, you know.” 

Martin breathed the kind of exasperated breath schoolteachers make at students who seem to be purposefully refusing to grasp a concept. “I know that, Jon. I want to do this.” 

They stood there for what felt like ages, as if they were both waiting for the other to acknowledge the implications of the exchange they’d just had. 

“Okay, well, you can go ahead and wash up first?” Martin asked, having decided they were both too drunk to have any sort of serious conversation tonight. 

“Oh, um, yes,” Jon said, in a way that Martin could have _sworn_ sounded disappointed. He shuffled into the bathroom and closed the door gently. Martin quickly changed into his own pajamas, and sat pointedly in the chair to prevent Jon from trying to take it from him. 

When Jon reemerged, Martin’s pajamas hanging too-loose over his frame, he looked as all his recent sleepless nights had suddenly come crashing down on him. Martin gestured pointedly towards the bed, maintaining his stubborn position in the armchair. Jon opened his mouth, presumably to protest, but all that came out was a quiet “thank you.” 

He was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow. 

As Martin looked at Jon from behind his own heavy eyelids, he felt tears well up in the corners of his eyes. Something about seeing Jon in _his_ clothes, in _his_ bed made the smaller man look so vulnerable, and so _stupidly_ exhausted. The mask of bitterness and skepticism was gone from Jon’s face, and he just looked troubled, plagued by the kind of ever-present worry Martin knew so well. Martin’s desire to crawl into bed alongside him and hold the other man in his arms and just let him rest felt like a horrible full-body ache, and Martin knew he was in too deep. He knew that this feeling would get him in trouble someday, and yet … something about Jon meant he couldn’t just let it go.

Martin reached into his satchel for a tissue to wipe the tears off his face, and felt his hand brush against his book of poems. He pulled it out of his bag – he knew he wasn’t going to get much sleep that night; he’d always been terrible at sleeping sitting up. He flipped open the volume without anything specific in mind, but the book opened to the page containing Jon’s pressed lavender. Jon was right, Martin thought, the purple flowers were beautiful. He held one of the stems carefully up to his nose, and breathed in the floral scent that had been lingering on Jon’s breath all night, that now lingered on the pages of his poetry book. 

He set the lavender sprigs gently on the table next to him, making a note to return them to the book when he was done reading. As he listened to the rain come down against his windowpanes, he read and reread the poem Jon’s lavender had been on, turning the lines over in his mind:

_It is the hour – when lover’s vows_  
Seem sweet in every whisper’d word;  
And gentle winds and waters near,  
Make music to the lonely ear. 


End file.
